r — ^ 

'    LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  Of 
CALIF  OWWM 

SAN  WEGO       i 
\ -«->^ 


.  V  ^   ^  j^  ^Z" 


A    MASQUE    OF    DEAD    FLORENTINES 


MAURICE    HEWLETT 


'•'■Fiore/iza  mia,  ben  puoi 
esser  contenta" 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLOREN 
TINES      BY     MAURICE     HEWLETT 
PRINTED   FOR  AND   PUBLISHED   BY 
THOMAS    B     MOSHER    PORTLAND     MAINE 
MDCCCCXI 


V 


FOREWORD 

WHEN,  i7i  The  Bibelot  for  Apnl,  i8g6, 
ive  printed  certain  Songs  of  Dead  Floren- 
tines —  a  series  of  Italian  lyrics  i?t  large  part  done 
into  English  by  the  late  fohn  Addington  Sytnonds  — 
it  was,  confessedly,  with  the  title  in  mind  of  a  book 
but  recefitly  issued. ' 

A  few  months  earlier,  Earthwork  Out  of  Tus- 
cany, being  Impressions  and  Translations  of 
Maurice  Hewlett,  had  been  brought  out  by  the 
same  publishers,  —  a  book  dismissed  with  scant, 
disparaging  estimate  in  The  Athenaeum,  —  though 
now  seen  to  have  held  within  its  all  too  few  pages 
one  indubitable  little  "  Imaginary  Portrait,"  yf/  to 
be  ranked  im?nediately  after  the  four  elaborately 
finished  cabinet-pieces  of  the  same  Jiame  and  genre 
by    Walter  Pater.      As  for  the  Masque  //  appar- 


See  Bibliographical  Note. 


FOREWORD 


e7itly  fell  still-born  from  the  press :  to  the  best  of 
our  knowledge  and  belief  ?io  criticism  whatever,  in 
any  Journal  of  7iote  in  England  or  America,  being 
passed  upo?i  it.  ^ 

From  our  personal  vieiu-point  Mr.  Hewletfs 
morality-play,  if  one  chooses  to  call  it  so,  is  a  brill- 
iant conceptiofi,  bringing  together  as  it  does,  the 
august  shades  of  the  me7i  and  women  of  the  Renais- 
sance. It  is  in  very  truth  "^  masque  of  death'' s 
old  comedy,'^  and  a  brief  a  dialysis  may  not  be  co?i- 
sidered  unwelcome  to  those  who  ?iow  read  it  for  the 
first  time. 

The  First  Pari  opefis  with  an  invocatio?i  of 
Da7ite ;  then  Beatrice  is  seen,  followed  by  Laura 


I  We  reprint  the  text  in  its  entirety.  As  Mr.  Batteii's 
illustrations  do  not  lend  themselves  to  satisfactory  reprodnc- 
tion  they  have  been  omitted.  With  the  lapse  of  time  it  is 
7171  likely  that  this  thin  oblo7ig quarto  will  lose  vabie  either  in 
the  eyes  of  the  collector  or  the  lover  of  poetry  for  its  oiv7i  sake. 


FOREWORD 


and  Fetmrch,  and ^' quite  out  of  historic  sequence, 
Boccace  and  his  Fiammetla.  Then  the  three  ladies 
of  old  time  dance  and  recede  from  sights  while  the 
Chorus  recites  their  worth  and  the  renown  of  their 
lovers  ;  whereupon  Giotto,  Corso  Donati,  Farinata, 
Buondehnonte,  Guido  Cavalcante  a7id  the  Lady 
Ficcarda  Donati  appear.  Lastly  comes  Fra  Beato 
Angelico,  the  scene  closing  with  Chorus  giving  voice 
to  approval  of  his  lovely  life  and  quiet  end. 

Fai-t  Second  deals  with  ^^  Love  and  Ltaly  a?id 
Art  their  fo sterling, ^^  and  immediately  we  have 
speech  with  Fra  Lippo  Lippi ;  then  enter  Fico  del  la 
Mirandola,  Bartolommeo  Scala,  Lionardo  da  Vinci, 
all  voicing  the  bitter  outcry  of  the  Fsalmist.  Sinion- 
etta  now  makes  moan  over  the  dead  days  of  her 
youth,  and  her  lover  Giuliano,  with  others  of  the 
house  of  Medici  pass  over  the  stage  with  Lorenzo, 
greatest  ofthern  all,  upon  whom  the  Three  Reproaches 
habited  as  bent  old  women  heap  their  curses  for  his 
misdeeds.    Foliziano,  who  was  with  the  Magnificent 


FOREWORD 


when  he  died,  then  recites  an  elegy  a7id  is  dismissed 
into  darkness.  We  now  see  Cosimo  di  Medici,  hard 
upon  whose  footsteps  follows  Savofiarola  with  the 
tivo  who  most  loved  and  hated  him ;  and  last  comes 
Botticelli  whose  lament  is  btvken  in  upon  by  the 
Chorus  with  a  sinister  dirge  of  its  own.  Then  the 
Sun  shines  out  and  Luca  della  Robbia  speaks  in 
his  own  praise  which  is  fully  justified  by  the  ever- 
discerning  Chorus.  Quatrains  are  now  respectively 
recited  by  Macchiavelli,  Cellifii  and  Pulci,  afid  the 
burden  of  Florence,  her  destiny  and  doom,  sums 
itself  up  in  a  final  invocation  of  Michael  Angelo. 
So  passes  the  glory  of  the  City  of  Lilies. 

T.    B.    M. 


A    MASQUE    OF    DEAD    FLORENTINES 


Here  you  see,  as  in  a  glass, 
Death  and  Florence  grip  and  pass. 
One  was  scornful  as  a  maid 
In  her  bravery  fresh  arrayed  : 

One  was  brawny,  hearted  brass 

Which  look'd  longer,  Death  or  lass  ? 

Gentles,  you  and  Death  and  I 
Have  a  friendly  fall  to  try. 
He  is  masterful  and  plays 
Steadily;  looks  not  for  praise. 
Heeds  no  blame.     Your  head  is  high, 
High  as  mine  — but  by  and  bye  ? 


PERSONS    OF   THE   MASQUE 

A  CHORUS  OF  TIRED  LADIES  AND  POETS  FORGOTTEN 

THE    FLORENTINE    SHADES 

A    HERALD 

THREE    REPROACHES 

KING    DEATH 


THE  MASQUE 

FIRST    PART 

The  Scene  is  an  open  loggia  giving  upon  a  garden  in 
winter,  with  leafless  trees,  and  cypresses.  The  rain  stands 
in  pools;  over  all  is  the  soughing  of  a  great  wind.  A  fit- 
ful sunshine  comes  and  goes. 

AFTER    THE    SECOND    SOUNDING 

The  Chants  of  twelve  poets  and  twelve  ladies,  robed 
alike  in  sad-coloured  habits,  comes  into  the  garden,  and 
looking  towards  a  terminal  statue  of  Memory  which  is  in 
it,  says  this  : 


Of  quiet  death. 

WE  have  lost  what  we  had  won, 
Love's  reward  for  love's  work  done. 
Sightless  Memory  receiv'd 
No  news,  if  we  joy'd  or  griev'd. 
Were  we  lov'd  ?     She  lov'd  us  not. 


^  A  MASQUE   OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES 

Pity-worth  ?     Behov'd  us  not. 

Yet  we  count  us  happier 

Than  are  they  whose  keener  star 

Shone  about  them  while  they  stayed 

Here  with  us  ;  and  when  they  strayed 

Forbore  Death  their  names  to  hide : 

We  are  they  who  quietly  died. 


Invocatio)!  of  the  great  ones. 

Here  begins  that  crimson  line, 
Greater  none,  nor  more  divine. 
By  thy  grimness  of  achieving, 
By  the  scope  of  thy  conceiving, 
6^(9^-creative,  Zr^izz^<?;/-cleaving, 
Alighieri !  lift  thy  head 
From  among  the  sheeted  dead. 
Buonarroti!     God\s]us\.\ 
Come  thou  too  to  close  the  trust : 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES  5 

Tell  the  story 

How  the  glory 

Of  thy  burgh  was  pash'd  in  dust. 

Dante  Alighieri  passes^  in   sober  red  habit   and 
cowled ;  a  tongue  of  fire  above  his  brow. 

Dante 

The  first  to  speak  in  Florence^  Florence  spurn 'd 
My  song  and  service.     From   home  to   outland 

turn'd, 
I  sensed  God^s  secrets,  eating  salted  bread. 
God  woke  my  love  by  death  :  they  crown'd  me, 
'  dead. 

Chorus 

O  lasso  ! 

Woe,  the  dead  poet !     Woe,  the  alien  tomb, 
And  brooding  brow  shadow'd  by  all  HelVs  gloom  ! 
How  was  that  City  proud  and  confident 


5  A  MASQUE   OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

That  past  him  by.     Alas  !  all  's  woe  upon  her  ! 
Say,  wouldst  thou  know  his  heart?     His   heart 

was  riven : 
To  God  one  half,  to  Beatrice  half  was  given. 
But  since  God  saw  Heav''n  bare  without  her  soul, 
He  took  her ;  and  the  cloven  heart  was  whole. 

Beatrice  Portinari passes.     She  is  i?i  a  clear  greefi 
garme?it,  and  holds  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

Beatrice 

My  spirit,  like  a  sigh,  just  flutter'd  o'er 

Our  homestead  city ;  melted  then  to  soar 

As  altar-smoke.    But  one  who  'd  mourn'd  me  wed, 

FoUow'd  me  from  that  Feast.    I  liv'd,  being  dead. 

Chorus 


God  saw  her  beautiful,  and  lov'd,  and  took  her ! 
How  dark  the  city  sate 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

(That  joyed  of  late) 

When  she,  that  youngest  angel-shape,  forsook  her. 


Of  Daiite  and  Beatrice, 

This  is  that  man  who  thought  it  well 
Alone  to  tread  the  gulfs  of  Hell^ 
Who  look'd  on  naked  sin  beneath 
The  mask  of  life,  and  call'd  it  death. 

Nor  lost  he  there  his  latest  breath, 
Nor  all  the  pity  he  had  shed ; 
But  it  was  heap'd  on  him,  and  led 
Him  outward  from  the  cavern's  teeth. 

And  that  great  utterance  he  said 
Liveth,  and  he  who  saw  the  dead 
Cannot  taste  death ;  for  Death's  hand  shook 
To  feel  the  burden  of  his  Book. 


I  A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES 

And  this  is  She  at  whose  death-moan 
The  wasted  City  sat  alone ; 
And  She  whose  giving  up  of  life 
Forewarn 'd  him  take  her  soul  to  wife. 


Ill 


0/  Song,  the  miraculous  child. 

From  the  nuptial  of  Spirit  and  Spirit, 

From  the  girdle  that  bound  her  3'oung  heart, 

Unloosed  by  the  tongue  of  his  art, 

Sprang  the  burning  miraculous  Child 

All  soothsay  that  was  to  inherit, 

To  nourish  and  foster  and  spread. 

Till  all  kindreds  should  leap  when  he  smiled, 

Or  panting  run  whither  he  led 

At  the  spell  of  his  treacherous  merit. 

O  Song,  with  the  throat  of  a  bird 

And  loins  and  core  of  a  youth ; 


A  MASQUE   OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

O  Song,  crystal  harbour  of  truth, 

That  sprang  from  Love  mated  with  Power ! 

O  Song,  when  thy  harping  was  blurr'd, 

Thoughtest  thou,  O  So7ig,  in  thy  ruth, 

What  blood  had  water'd  thy  flower 

Ere  yet  one  tendril  had  stirr'd  ? 

What  paling  of  virginal  bosoms, 

What  prayerful,  and  tearful,  and  sooth 

Upgiving  of  strength,  that  thy  blossoms 

Should  bud  in  that  clamorous  hour? 

But  Song  set  his  delicate  feet 

In  the  way  of  the  World  and  the  mire  ; 

Song  tasted  the  fruit  of  desire. 

And  laugh'd  at  the  clouding  of  eyes 

(For  he  knew  love's  filming  was  sweet). 

So  So7ig  held  revel,  and  loud 

Sang  he  with  passionate  cries : 

And  his  raiment  was  golden  and  proud. 

Thus  the  cup  of  his  wrath  was  complete. 


lo        A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 
IV 

Song  as  a  child  was  full  of  peace 
Laid  in  the  bosom  of  Beatrice. 

0  sweet  lady,  O  griev'd  heart, 

How  fared  So?ig  and  his  brother  Arfi 

Laura  comes,  a  youthful  Matroii  in  a  high-waisted 
goum,  a  child  at  either  hand.  She  looks 
patiently  before  her,  with  good  courage. 

Laura 

1  gave  my  love  to  him  who  lov'd  my  face, 
I  did  him  wifely  service  with  good  grace ; 
Nor  lean'd  aside  to  what  my  Poet  said : 
But  I  may  thank  him  now  that  I  am  dead. 

Petrarch.  He  has  a  laurel-wreath,  and  bears  a 
little  crystal  twn  wherein  is  his  own  heart. 

Petrarch 

My  voice  was  as  the  swan's  that  dirgeth  death ; 
My  joys  were  frail  things,  lighter  than  a  breath. 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES         ii 

But,  like  the  night,  I  froze  them  to  a  brede  — 
They  wove  me   crowns   thereof,   and   wrapt   me 
dead. 

Chorus 

The  Chorus  tells  of  his  consolation. 

"  Merci,"  she  laugh'd  him  once ;  a  glove  discarded, 

A  parting,  and  a  meeting : 
With  these  his  poet's  hunger  was  rewarded ; 

But  in  her  greeting, 
Or  when  the  light  of  her  died  down  and  fiutter'd 

As  stars  at  dawning. 
Or  at  her  coming  various  song-birds  utter'd 

The  rosy  birth  of  morning ; 
Or  when  he  knelt   and   took   her   hand's   warm 
sheathing, 

His  heart  on  fire 
Shot  golden  words  unto  his  lips,  which  breathing 

Did  lift  him  higher 

Than  ever  long  assuagement  of  desire. 


12         A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

Boccace  passes,  crotvned  with  floivers,  a  wreath' d 
thyrsus  in  his  hand. 

BOCCACE 

Heavy  the  blossoms,  sultry-sweet  the  wine, 
And  all  the  air  gold-dusted  with  sun-shine. 
I  found  a  girl's  warm  bosom  for  my  head, 
And —  God  was  good  !     I  lov'd  till  I  was  dead. 

Fia77imetta  passes.     She   is  robed  like   a  King's 
daughter.,  and  carries  a  pair  of  golden  shears. 

FlAMMETTA 

I  brought  my  burning  wealth  up  from  the  South, 
1  kiss'd  him  with  the  kisses  of  my  mouth  : 
The  low  slow  laugh  when  Southern  love  is  fed 
Was  longer  mine :  I  cloyed  him,  he  is  dead. 

Chorus  Of  Boccace's  book. 

And  of  the  sweet?iess  of  his  Lady. 

Yes,  thou  art  dead,  Boccace! 

Thy  garden-plot,  a  hundred  starry  flowers, 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES         13 

Yet  springs,  is  fragrant  yet  of  soft  light  loves, 

Love  languid,  love  askance,  love  under  bowers 
Of  myrtle  trees,  love  eager,  love  that  proves 

How  love  may  ache,  alas  ! 
And  she,  thy  confident  fair 

That  set  her  gleaming  teeth 
To  the  rind  of  thy  fruits,  laid  bare 

Her  white  throat  soft  as  death 

To  warm  to  thy  amorous  breath. 
She  let  down  the  pride  of  her  hair, 

A  flood  and  tangle  of  gold. 
And  sat  embower'd  there 

Like  pale  Queen  Helen  of  old  : 

Scarlet  her  lips,  but  the  white  of  her  globed 
breasts  is  untold ! 

The  three  Ladies  dance  a  stately  solemn  measure,  to 
this  versing: 

The  Measure. 

Beatrice^  the  white  Lady, 
Lead  our  mystic  pageantry  ; 


14         A  MASQUE   OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

Laura,  slim  and  carcanetted, 
Shy  as  violets  dew-wetted  ; 

Fiammetta,  lissom,  young, 
Golden  as  the  arum's  tongue, 

Follow  in  the  antic  round, 
Eyes  demurely  cast  to  ground. 

High-born,  stately,  queens,  we  pass 
Treading  daintily  the  grass. 

Beatrice 

I  was  nine  when  I  was  wooed, 
Never  word  my  poet  could. 

Laura 

Wedded  wife  was  I,  my  poet 

Won  my  looks  but  could  not  know  it. 

Fiammetta 

Great  King's  daughter  though  I  were, 
I  chose  my  poet  debonnair. 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES         15 

The  three  Ladies 

Twine  white  arms,  tread  the  measure  : 
Ours  the  grace  and  theirs  the  treasure. 

Let  the  ghostly  ladies  pass 
Like  the  mist  on  springing  grass. 

Beatrice 

I  was  wedded  ere  my  years 
Number'd  twelve  :  I  shed  no  tears. 

Laura 

Children  bore  I  to  my  lord 

As  thy  years ;  I  sighed  no  word. 

FlAMMETTA 

Wedded  I,  but  love  is  free : 
Not  my  husband  pleasured  me. 

The  THREE  Ladies 

x\ll  the  years  and  all  the  blisses 
Come  and  go  like  children's  kisses. 


[6        A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES 

We  are  dead,  and  now,  alas ! 
Shadows  of  us  haunt  the  grass. 

The  three  Ladies  pass  away;  but  the  Chorus,  looking 
still  upon  their  poets,  says  this  : 


Of  the  Great  Three. 

Lo  !  now,  the  mighty  triad  of  old  Florence 
Mewed  like  strong  eagles  in  Death^s  pale  abhor- 
rence. 
The  first  set  patient  at  his  prison-bars, 
Look'd  up  and  saw  his  lady  with  the  stars ; 
The  next,  slow-pacing,  holding  him  apart, 
Pierc'd  his  own  breast  to  Laura  in  his  heart ; 
And  last  the  Reveller,  flushing  high,  did  pass, 
Look'd  down  on  Fiam7netta  couch 'd  in  grass. 
O  strength,  that  scann'd  all  Heaven,  and  Man, 

and  Earth ! 
O  glory,  that  could  give  such  seeing  birth. 


A  MASQUE   OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES         17 

II 

Of  the  Duomo. 

They  built  a  shrine  anon  to  speak  those  three, 
Soaring  aloft,  dome-shadow'd  like  a  world, 
Deep-founded  as  the  good  brown  Earth  their  fee, 
And  set  about  with  massy,  rich-empearl'd 
Smooth  marble  (like  the  soul  of  Poetry), 
And  winding  leafage  of  vine  and  olive  curl'd, 
Down  drooping  o'er  the  column'd  tracery. 
How  goodly  shone  the  vasty  fabric  hurl'd 
Tow'rd  Heaven  up,  yet  cleaving  sturdily 
To  Earth's  broad  bosom  and  the  grey  street's 

track, 
Barr'd  like  a  great  moth's  wing  with  rose   and 

black. 
Knew  all  men  best  when  (breath'd  by  God)  its 

flower 
Spear'd  up  of  his  desire,  the  lily-tower. 


i8    A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

III 

Of  7iew  Shades. 

Break  off,  break   off,   my   heart,   here   are   new 

comers, 
Perpetual  youth  and  age  perpetual ; 
One  with  the  bashful  bloom  of  early  summers, 
The  other  gnaw'd  on  like  the  years  that  fall. 
Who  is  this  dreamer  with  his  dreams  at  call, 
And  happy  morning  face,  and  wholesome  breath  ? 
Who  this  lean  vagrant,  choking  down  his  gall 
As  he  should  grudge  to  void  it  upon  Death  ? 

The  first  Giotto^  figured  as  a  young  man  carrying 
a  shock  of  spring  boughs. 

Giotto 

The  hills  that  call  each  other  thro'  the  night, 
The  stars  that  sing  of  silence,  the  trees  of  light, 
I  knew !     I  knew !     "  Thy  brethren  they,"    He 

saith. 
There  came  a  sister  soon,  meek  Sister  Death. 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES         19 


The  other  is  Corso  Donatio  like  an  old  man  with 
blood  upon  his  hair. 

Corso 

I  had  the  fire-streak'd  blood  no  pomp  could  hold 
Of  Gothic  blazon  or  CerchVs  dirty  gold. 
A  ban-dog  hounding  sheep,  I  fought  and  bled 
That,  living,  Florence  fear'd  me  :  I  hush  her,  dead. 

Chorus 

One  doth  make  what  one  doth  mar ; 
One  brings  peace,  another  war. 

See  what  Florence''  children  are  — 
One  bit  her,  one  did  kiss  the  scar. 

A  company  of  four  Shades  comes  next. 

Farinata  in  his  armour,  with  a  7iaked  sword ; 

Farinata 

The  fire  that  rages  in  me  outburns  Hell ; 
I  am  the  pride  of  Flore?ice  I 


20         A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES 

Buondelvi07ite  in  a  white  silke?i  doublet ; 

BUONDELMONTE 

I  rang  a  knell 
That  day  they  drain'd  me  whiter  than  my  vest: 
After  't  was  Florence  bled. 

Giiido    Cai'alcante    with  a    lute,  and  a  peacock's 
feather  stuck  in  his  cap. 

GuiDO 

My  way  was  best. 
From  lip  to  lip  I  past,  from  grove  to  grove  : 
I  am  like  Florence;  they  call  me  Light  o'  Love. 

Last  Piccarda   Donati  with   the  Minoress"*   cord 
sandals. 

Piccarda 

Reared  in  a  goshawk's  nest,  I  flew  to  peace  ; 
Plighted  to  sin,  I  wedded  the  white  Christ: 
His  arm  upheld  me  when  they  marr'd  our  ease, 
For  I  was  stricken  whiter  than  the  mist. 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES         21 

In  a  sudden  ray  of  light  a  single  Shade  comes  to  close 
the  tale. 

Fra  Beato  A?igelico,  in  black  and  white  habit. 
He  carries  a  lily  in  one  hafid.  On  his  shoulder 
burns  a  star. 

Fra  Beato 

The  mystic  flame-enwrapt  Jerusalem 

Was  set  before  me  like  a  clouded  gem. 

I  trod  the  ways  of  Florence :  steep  the  tread, 

But  leading  swiftly  to  the  blessed  dead. 

Chorus 

Of  lovely  life. 

Of  quick  recompetise. 

Thou  shalt  be  called  the  Son  of  Peace 

And  Star  of  Bethlehem  : 

In  thee  the  ardent  striver 

Found  placid  requiem  ; 

In  thee,  the  still  contriver, 

In  thee,  the  honest  liver. 


12         A  MASQUE   OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

Dreaming  thy  soaring  ecstasies 

Within  the  hum  of  men. 

Like  to  the  soothing  of  doves, 

Like  to  the  plashing  of  rain, 

So  as  the  cloud-shadow  moves 

To  sober  the  Sun's  beating  pain, 

Thy  music,  thy  chrism,  thy  prayers, 

Bade  Hope  lift  again  : 

Hope  of  wings  fretty  with  fire. 

Of  eyes  looking  out  to  the  deep 

Heart  of  the  azure,  and  higher  — 

Yearning  to  creep 

Into  the  folds  of  the  mantle  of  God, 

Haply  to  sleep. 

The  light  endures  for  a  space,  and  then  goes  out  as  the 
Prate's  shade  passes.  The  ram  descends  and  veils  the 
scene.     The  end  of  the  first  part. 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES         23 


THE    SECOND    PART 

P>egins  under  a  cold  clear  sky.  Enters  the  Herald,  a 
young  boy  in  a  short  GreekisJi  cloak  and  Phrygian  cap. 
He  carries  a  jP<?;/-pipe  and  speaks  eagerly  this  sonnet. 

Of  7iew  promise. 

THE  Tale  is  now  of  Love  and  Italy 
And  Art  their  fosterling,  of  that  new  time 
When  first  the  Sun  scatter'd  the  hoary  rime 
Of  older  fashions,  and  leapt  eagerly 
Forward  and  up  to  flood  the  new  with  glee. 
Then,  when  the  world  was   young   and   saw  in 

rhyme 
And  colour  move  all  Nature.,  the  sublime 
Prism  and  chord  of  God  lay  plain  to  see. 
Then  every  maid  held  godhead,  every  flower 
A  sacrament,  the  fever  and  old  dread 
Of  living  —  ecstasy  !  of  loving  —  power  ! 
So  Love  call'd  from  the  grave  the  mighty  dead  : 


24    A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

And  he  that  voiced  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
Plato  the  prophet,  murmured  down  the  years. 


Chorus 


Of  fulfilment. 


The  boy  is  a  shade, 
And  the  cup  he  quaffs 
Is  down  to  the  lees  : 
Only  Death  laughs. 

First  comes  Lippo  Lippi  alofie^  figured  as  a  young 
Satyr  in  a  monk's  frock. 

Lippo 

I  peered  for  God  and  found  him  underneath 
A  girl's  shy  eyes.     Up  then  came  Master  Death, 
Saying,  "  You  monk,  bow  down  to  me  instead ; 
Here  is  no  god  for  you."     My  wench  was  dead. 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES    25 

Then  come  three  scholars  together. 

First  Gio.  Pico  of  Mirandola.     He  is  a  youth  in 
soft  raiment,  reading  in  a  Hebrew  book. 

Pico 

Men  call'd  me  Paragon;  I  challenged  Rome; 
Ro77ie  frown'd,  I  fled  :  on  many  a  dusty  tome 
I  ponder'd,  yet  found  not  the  true  Godhead ; 
But,  loving  much,  God  came  and  laid  me  dead. 

Then  Bartolommeo  Scala  in  his  btirgher^s  dress, 
and  spectacles  pushed  o?i  to  his  forehead. 

Scala 

They  dubb'd  me  inexpert,  and  set  me  slave 
At  lacquey  work  :  my  heart  to  Greek  I  gave. 
Had  I  that  fair  sort  that  I  coveted  ? 
I  strove,  I  strain'd  to  reach,  I  clutch 'd  —  'twas 
dead. 


26        A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

Then  LioJiardo  da  Vmci  with  a  lo?ig  white  beard. 
He  walks  pai?ij'ully  with  a  crutch. 

LlONARDO 

Too  curious !     Art  short  solace  gave  my  spirit. 
Too  curious  !     Power  contented  not  my  merit. 
Too  curious !     Life  itself  me  wearied. 
The  living  tire  to  death :  we  wait,  w^e  dead. 

Chorus 

O foolish  Wise! 

Blind,  blind,  blind ! 

As  sheep  in  the  rain. 

Blind  as  the   Worm  that  beguiled 

The  Mother  of  Caijt. 

Then  comes  La  Siitionetta,  as  a  virgin  of  lovely  sorrow- 
ful countenance,  in  a  white  robe.  Round  her  loins  is  a 
black  snake  that  carries  his  tail  ever  in  his  mouth.  She 
bears  a  chaplet  of  yew ;  and  is  attended  by  seven  young 
maids  in  mourning  weeds. 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES         27 

SiMONETTA 

Grief  of  Simonetta. 

Once  a  virgin  of  virgins, 
Crown'd  as  with  fire,  and  pale, 
I  stoopt  to  my  own  undoing, 
I  lay  as  corn  to  the  flail. 

The  Seven 

As  a  lily-stalk  snapt  by  hail 
She  fell  to  her  girdle's  undoing, 
Nor  tears  could  avail. 

Simonetta 

As  the  hawk  on  his  wrist  he  was  hard, 
As  the  quail's  my  blithesomeness  froze ; 
I  stood  asham'd  in  the  pasture, 
My  eyes  were  wide  as  the  roe's. 


28         A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

The  Seven 

With  her  lapful  of  flowers  she  uprose : 
All  tenderly  white  was  her  vesture, 
She  blush'd  like  a  rose. 

SiMONETTA 

I  was  woo'd  in  the  time  of  wild  crocus, 
I  sank  with  a  trembling  of  knees ; 
He  took  me  up  on  his  pillion 
And  rode  away  thro'  the  trees. 

The  Seven 

The  willow  must  bend  to  the  breeze ! 

She  pined  in  her  king's  pavilion, 

She  longed  for  her  peace. 

Oh,  the  land  swept  black  by  the  shower. 

The  lash  and  the  rain  ! 

She  bow'd  like  a  tired  sweet  flower, 

She  moan'd  for  her  pain  ! 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES         29 

SiMONETTA 

Because,  being  fairer  than  the  dawn,  I  trod 
The  flowery  way  that  lures  a  soul  from  God^ 
And  gaged  my  youth  against  man's  hardihead ; 
Therefore  I  wear  the  bleak  smile  of  the  dead. 

Chorus 

Blind. 
Blind,  blind,  blind! 
As  monk  in  his  cell ; 
Blind  as  the  Corn-mother's  child 
That  played  by  the  mouth  of  Hell. 

Then  come  the  house  of  Medici.  First  is  Ginliano  de' 
Medici  in  hunter's  green.  He  carries  a  broken  shaft  in 
his  hand.  Following  him  are  seven  lads  (sons  of  princes) 
dressed  in  sables. 

GlULIANO 

Retribution. 
Once  as  a  tiger-whelp  I  was  athirst, 
And  gnaw'd  the  breast  where  kindly  I  was  nurs'd. 


JO        A  MASQUE   OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

But  thirstier  the  blades  that  cut  me  red, 
And  sent  me  shaggy  to  the  secret  dead. 

The  Seven  Princes 
Swart  as  the  heart  of  the  South, 
Proud  as  the  rock-springing  pine, 
Sweet  water  cool'd  never  thy  drouth, 
Nor  fruit  of  the  vine  ! 
Last  of  old  Cosimo's  line, 
Cut  off  quick  in  thy  youth, 
Thy  blood  was  outpour'd  like  wine ; 
They  show'd  thee  no  ruth, 

Who  in  life  had  none  for  the  old,  nor  the  roses 
of  youth. 

Then  Clarice  Orsini ;  a  grey-hair'' d  woman  bowed 

beneath  a  golden  yoke. 
Clarice 

I  had  small  solace  for  my  life  of  anguish, 
Pluck'd  out  from  Ro7ne  and  set  in  Florence  to 
languish  : 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES         3] 

A  pride  that  froze  my  tears  ere  they  could  shed, 
And  children  —  would  they  were  as  I  am,  dead! 

And  then  Lorenzo  as  a  king  crowned  with  thorns 
and  holding  a  leaden  sceptre. 

Lorenzo 

I  am  that  Medici,  swart,  keen,  and  wanton, 
That  spent  all  Florence  on  the  thin-lipt  phantom 
Of  lust  so  dry  it  never  could  be  fed  : 
At  last,  unshrived,  still  burning,  I  fell  dead. 

Chorus 

Woe !  Woe !  the  staring  hearth  :  woe !  the  tired 

city, 
Weary  of  bloodshed,  vacant-eyed  for  pity ! 
Woe  to  brown  Fisa  !  Havoc  on   Volterra  ! 
Woe,  all  Woe  upon  us  ! 

The  Reproaches. 
Three  grey  women  hold  the  gate. 
With  sudden  firelit  eyes,  and  hate 


32    A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

Cradled  in  each  beaten  breast. 

Stay  !     Heed  them  ;  one  out-hates  the  rest. 

Three  Reproaches,  like  to  bent  women,  appear  stretch- 
ing out  arms  towards  the  shade  of  Lorenzo. 

The  first  Reproach 

Pisa. 
First  woe  was  when  the  sword  was  set, 
Sword  and  Fire  to  my  own  young  brood. 
Never  a  woe  like  the  mother's  cry 
That  watches  in  chains  the  ebb  of  her  blood  — 
Woe  to  thee  !     Pisa  was  I. 

The  second  Reproach 

The  maids'  doivry. 
Next  woe  was  the  shaming  of  maids, 
Stript  to  the  smock  and  sold  to  sin. 
Never  such  woe  as  to  lay  the  lure, 
Smirch  and  soil  what  once  was  clean  — 
Woe !  who  shall  ravish  the  poor. 


A  MASQUE   OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES         33 


The  third  Reproach 


Tyranjiy. 


Third  woe  was  the  land  in  chains, 
Golden  seeming  and  brave  in  silk. 
Where  is  woe  as  for  brother  and  brother 
Bruise  the  bosom  that  gave  them  milk  — 
Woe  !  who  traffick'd  his  mother. 

Ere  the  Chor^is  can  curse  him,  Poliziano  comes  behind 
him  with  a  muffled  rote,  and  weeping. 

Poliziano 

Elegy. 
Grant  me,  gods,  a  fount  of  tears, 

So  that  night  and  day 

Weeping  I  may  drown  old  grief. 

Mourning  quench  the  years. 

So  the  widow'd  turtle  may 

Give  her  heart  relief  ; 

So  the  fainting  snowy  swan, 

So  the  nightingale, 

All  their  sorrows,  utter  lonely  passion,  do  bewail. 


34         A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

Woe  for  us,  and  woe,  and  woe ! 

Grief  is  bow'd  and  grey  ; 

yove  hath  carv'd  our  goodly  Trei 

With  his  thunderblow ! 

Woe  the  Muses'  broken  lay, 

Woe  the  melody ! 

Woe,  Apollo,  woe  God  Pati, 

Woe,  ye  Sisters  Nine, 

Woe,  green-kirtled  Dryads,  woe,  my  Bacchus,  to 

thy  vine ! 
Mourning  let  me  quench  the  years, 
And  my  grief  to  drown, 
Grant  me,  gods,  a  waterflood, 
Grant  a  fount  of  tears. 


Chorus 


To  Lorenzo. 


One  there  was 

Who,  loving  much,  did  weep  for  thee.     So  pass 

Death  may  not  smite 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES         35 

The  lamp  to  shiver  quite 

That  little  flame  within  that  was  a  Poet's  light. 

Next  comes    Cosimo,   Pater  Pat?'icB,   an   old  ma?i 
richly  habited,  having  the  ears  of  Midas. 

COSIMO 

Laboured  I  well,  that  bound  the  state  to  mine 
In  gyves  that  chafed,  but  held  throughout  the  line  ? 
They  crown 'd  me  with   a  name  our  foes  might 

dread, 
But  curs'd  me  for  my  sons  when  I  was  dead. 

Chorus 

The  little  Great. 
Blind,  blind,  blind ! 
As  a  bird  in  the  snow. 
Blind  as  the  king  that  did  cherish 
The  son  that  wrought  him  a  woe. 


36         A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES 

Savonarola^  carryi?ig  a  smouldering  torch. 

Savonarola 

God  set  in  me  a  heart  to  burn  like  pain, 

And  Florence  fed  the  fire.     In  vain,  in  vain, 

I  augur'd  life;  the  fire  was  heap'd;   I  led 

The  way  for  Florence :  Fhrrence  mock'd  me  dead. 

Following  is  his  enemy ^  Fra  Francesco  the  Minorite^ 
carrying  a  distorting  glass. 

Fra  Francesco 

For  Francis''  sake  I  spurn'd  him  of  Saint  Mark : 

Is  that  soul  sure  that  dareth  him  embark 

On  death's  dull  sea  that  death  may  serve  hatred  ? 

I  know  not  what  they  won,  nor  care,  being  dead. 

Next  the  Frate's  Cha?npion,  Fra  £>o??ienico,  coivled 

in  white,  ivith  an  anchor. 
Fra  Domenico 

I  trusted  in  the  prophet  sent  from  God ; 
Side  to  his  side  the  way  to  death  I  trod. 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES         37 

The  flame  leapt  heavenward  —  O  true  he  said  ! 
Our  spirits  soar'd  ;  we  left  but  ashes  dead. 

Sandro  Botticelli,  holding  a  hollow  sphere. 
Sandro 

Latest  of  all,  and  loneliest,  I  endured 
In  heaviness  of  days  with  light  obscured  : 
Green  earth  grown  grey,  sun  cold,  the  comely  head 
Of  my  life's  flower  snapt  short  —  Art  with  her, 
dead ! 

The  Chorits  breaks  in  upon  him  with  this  lament,  what 
time  the  rain  descends  and  the  wind  blows  shrill. 


The  dirge. 


What  shall  it  profit,  O  Man, 
That  the  pitiful  soil  of  thy  years, 
Sterile,  acheth  a  span 
Of  waste  furrow'd  by  tears  ? 
Waste  sown  with  tears, 


38         A  MASQUE   OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

Flowering  pale  for  a  span, 
Wither'd  anon  like  the  years  ; 
What  profit,  O  Man  ? 


Twenty  thou  groanest  to  learn. 
Twenty  thou  thinkest  to  fly. 
Twenty  drag,  and  thy  turn 
Cometh  to  die. 

What  profit,  O  Man, 
What  the  harvest  of  years, 
Strown  like  corn  to  the  fan, 
Cut  as  with  sickle  the  ears  ? 


Corn  that  is  sown  with  tears, 
Winnow'd  as  chaff  by  the  fan  ; 
Gone  the  harvest  of  years  :  — 
Death  is  profit,  O  Man ! 


Of  Loss. 


And  Profit. 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES         39 

When  the  Sun  gleams  again,  you  see  Liica  della  Robbia, 
clothed  in  apple-green,  with  a  bunch  of  yellow  and  blue 
flowers  in  his  hand. 

LUCA 

Mine  was  a  glad  small  spirit  unafraid  ; 

I  breathed  it  out,  the  stone  walls  flower'd,  and 

made 
Florence  a  garden.     So  without  a  dread 
I  laid  my  tools  aside  and  blossom'd,  dead. 

Chorus 

Praise  of  Luca. 

Thou  shalt  be  called  the  Son  of  Man 
And  Spirit  of  the  Earth, 
That  met  young  Love  and  kiss'd  her 
And  wreath'd  her  lips  with  mirth; 
April  with  eyes  aglister, 
Green  May  her  buxom  sister, 
Shy  loves  and  tender  fruitage 
Were  children  of  thy  birth. 


40    A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

Wherein,  perhaps,  the  dirge  is  answer\i. 

\Mth  eyes  seeking  the  Sun, 

And  heart  loving  the  Day, 

Knowing  no  evil  to  shun, 

Guileless,  walking  the  way, 

Breathing  the  secret  of  children  and  flowers 

Into  thy  clay  ! 

Man  with  the  faith  of  a  child, 

Child  with  a  strength  superhuman ; 

Lover,  that  told  of  the  Virgin  most  mild. 

Wedded  to  no  man  : 

Holy  art  thou,  that  could  call  her  arise 

God,  but  a  woman  ! 

Niccolo  MacchiaveUi,  bearifig  a  skull  wreath' d  ivith 
floivers. 

Macchiavel 

That  kings  might  feast  I  sweated  God  away ; 
To  insolent  stripling  feet  I  bow'd  my  grey 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES    41 

Wise  brows.    A  smirk,  a  shrug,  a  wagging  head  — 
I  used  this  way :  they  use  it  on  me  dead. 

Benvenuto  Celli7ii,  blindfold. 

Benvenuto 

The  glory  of  their  princedoms,  and  their  power 
Who  go  in  purple,  I  knew  my  little  hour. 
What  time  my  brain-trap  gript  them  all,  I  led 
Whither  I  would.     What  profiteth  me  dead  ? 

Luigi  Fulci,  gnawmg  a  stone, 

PULCI 

Let  who  wins  laugh  :  I  laugh'd  at  Heaven  and 

Earth. 
Dante  saw  Grief  2iX\di  lov'd  her;  I  chose  Mirth. 
Mirth  and  I  laugh'd  till  we  were  out  of  breath. 
And  left  one  laughing  still  —  the  jester.  Death. 


42         A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES 

Chorus 

The  hirden  of  Florence, 
A  boy  singing 

His  love  and  pain  ; 

The  watch-bell  ringing, 

Blood  shed  like  rain  ! 

A  dreamy  maid, 

And  a  voice  like  a  cry  — 

"  Betrayed,  betrayed ! 

How  shall  we  die?" 

Sigh^  wind,  sigh. 

The  squire  at  hawking. 
The  grass  in  flower ; 
Shame  stalking 
In  the  lady's  bower. 
"  Love  like  a  drought 
Doth  scorch  and  dry  : 
My  heart  is  out. 
Now  let  me  die  !  " 
Sigh,  wind,  sigh. 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES         43 

All  the  burning 
Of  all  the  South, 
Turn'd  to  mourning 
Thy  singing  mouth. 
The  fire  kindled, 
Soar'd  to  the  sky  ; 
The  song  dwindled, 
The  lute  lay  by. 
Sigh^  wind,  sigh. 

"  How  shall  I  sing 
With  my  lady  cold  ? 
She  died  in  the  Spring; 
I  am  grown  old." 
This  is  the  load 
Of  the  singer's  cry  — 
"If  6^^^/ is  God 
He  will  let  me  die  !  " 
Sigh,  wind,  sigh. 


44         A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD   FLORENTINES 
Then  the  CJioriis  invokes  the  last  Shade. 

Chorus  ^.   .  ^ , 

Finis  coronat ! 

Now,  last  and  greatest  of  these, 
Buonarroti  the  Seer, 
Wielder  of  dark  mysteries, 
Graver  that  knew  no  peer! 
Poet,  thinker  in  stone. 
Painter,  Maker  of  men, 
Naked,  silent,  alone, 
Gods  walking  again  ! 
Thee,  last,  who  art  first, 
Thee,  King,  we  invoke  ; 
Tell  of  Florence  accurs'd, 
Her  dolorous  stroke. 

Michael  Angelo  comes  crown'd ;    his  robe  full  of 
weeping  eyes, 

Michael  Angelo 

The  gaunt  long  life  of  unfulfill'd  desire. 

The  hireling's  ashes  on  the  poet's  fire ! 


A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD  FLORENTINES         45 

I  praj-ed  in  stone.     Their  scorn  was  on  their  head  : 
In  me  they  slew  the  last  of  their  great  dead. 

Chorus 

Florence  was. 
Blind,  Wind,  blind ! 
As  the  owl  in  the  day : 
Florence  was,  and  is  not ; 
She  passeth  away  1 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL    NOTE 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

A  Masque  of  Dead  Florentines,  /  wherein  some  of 
Death's  Choicest  Pieces,  and  /  the  Great  Game  that  he 
played  therewith,  /  are  fruitfully  set  forth.  /  [Motto : 
"  Fiorenza  mia,  ben  puoi  esser  contenta."]  /  ^Publishers' 
Device^  /  By  Maurice  Hewlett  /  Pictured  by  J.  D.  Batten 
/  J.  M.  Dent  &  Co.  /  —  London,  /  MDCCCXCV. 

Oblong,  4to,  cloth,  gilt  top.     Pp.  viii-i  +  52. 

To  this  first  edition  dedicated  "  To  my  proved  com- 
panion of  Florentine  days  and  other  seasons  of  fair  and 
foul  weather  —  this  northern  fruit  to  my  wife,''''  Mr.  Hew- 
lett added  the  following  prefatory  note : 

'■'■  Itwill sicfficiently  be  seen  that  this  poem  does  not  treat 
of  Florentine  histo7y  ;  that  it  fiouts  chronology.  Nullum 
tempus  occurrit  regi.  Alay  this  maxim  be  ttuisted  to 
further  the  poet  ?  The  painters  adopted  it  when  they 
yoked  Lucrece,  Susanna,  atid  the  daughters  of  Danaus  to 
Chastity's  chariot;  attd  T>2in\.e  fojind  \J\yss&s  in  the  same 
pit  with  Guido  da  Montefeltro.  Let  this  serve  as  my 
excuse  for  setting  Giotto  after  Boccace,  and  for  worse  dis- 
courtesies to  Time's  travels^ 


HERE  ENDS  A  MASQUE  OF  DEAD 
FLORENTINES  BY  MAURICE  HEWLEIT 
PRINTED  FOR  THOMAS  B  MOSHER 
AND  PUBLISHED  BY  HIM  AT  XLV  EX- 
CHANGE STREET  PORTLAND  MAINE 
MDCCCCXI 


B     000  008  52 


